


Fuck The Boredom Away

by gala_apples



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Established Relationship, Fucking Machines, M/M, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Being stuck in South Park during the quarantine is nearly as bad as the time Craig was dragged to Peru by a bunch of jerkoffs. At least until he unwraps one of the many presents given to him by obsessed South Parkers.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 1
Kudos: 85





	Fuck The Boredom Away

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt mechanical/technological for seasonofkink.

“This is the worst fucking place in the universe to be stuck during a pandemic,” Craig groans. His face is covered by the cradle of his hand because he can’t quite bring himself to look at anyone.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Clyde says. “You could be at Cartman’s house. He has more video games than me, but he’s still a huge assclown. Or Kennie’s trailer. She’s a she right now, and she has this weird thing with Butters, who is sometimes Marjorine but never a real girl like Kennie. It’s all very confusing.”

Craig pinches the bridge of his nose and continues to not look at his companions. South Park is surprisingly good at maintaining genderfluid Kenny/Kennie’s pronouns, maybe thanks to a generation guided by PC Principal, but he has zero interest in explaining the difference between fluid gender and drag queen cross dressing. He will not be the town’s queer educator just because he’s their gay icon.

“Yes, they all suck. But I don’t want to be here either. We’re leaving now.”

Fuck only knows where they’ll go, really. Craig got an email this morning about the campus closing, housing included, because of the virus. Tweek’s parents don’t live in Colorado, and Craig would rather blow his brains out than be housebound with his dad for an unknown length of time. But sharing a two bedroom apartment with Clyde and Jimmy seems like a terrible idea too. Craig’s gotten accustomed to daily life with Tweek, adding two others will only fuck his routine further. Surely not all hotels are closed, right?

“Ahhh! No way! Jesus Christ! We’ll get infected and die!”

Craig takes a second for a fortifying exhale. The worst part of this entire thing has been the world proving Tweek’s sketchy, paranoid, apocalypse-is-nigh stance correct. Tweek’s way harder to calm down when he’s panicking about something that’s actually happening. But the North Korea thing when they were kids taught Craig to respect Tweek’s need to feel emotions rather than problem solve everything, so he’s gotta let Tweek worry about dying.

“Babe. There’s only two beds here. Only one shower. Don’t you want to go somewhere-”

Craig doesn’t even get to finish his statement with _where we have more space_ before Tweek is interrupting, screaming, “no way man. Ahhh!”

“Come on Craig,” Clyde cajoles. “Stay for a few days, then reassess. I think Jimmy’s staying with his family, so there’s a free bed. And there’s a bunch of stuff for us to do and not get bored. Like did you know I still get your mail?”

“Don’t really need coupons, dear buddy.” Maybe it’s the fact that he never left South Park, but Craig is finding Clyde having more and more moments of Peak Dumb each time they visit.

“Not what I meant, though, FYI really appreciate the double coupons. But what I _meant_ was when some of the townspeople get in a romantic mood, they still send Creek stuff.” 

“If you portmanteau us one more time, I’ll kill you.” Craig didn’t allow it in elementary school, didn’t allow it in high school, and isn’t allowing it now either. He’s okay with most of what he is being a commodity to an alternating ravenous beast/cold shoulder society, but not his name. He wants his name to be his alone.

Clyde sidesteps reacting to the threat, as per usual. “Just look through your gay icon rewards and tell me there’s no perks to being here.”

Twenty minutes later Craig has to agree with Clyde, as bizarre as it sounds. The closet closest to the door was full of packages, many of which will serve him a good time while under quarantine. He’s up several bottles of alcohol, a gift card to Bennigans -he’s pretty sure they do Skip The Dishes-, a bottle of lube, as well as a bunch of pervy letters and drawings he has no interest in looking at. Plus whatever this last package is. Craig saved the largest for last; the crate’s enormous and requires an actual crowbar.

“What. The fuck.”

His tone is acerbic enough to call the attention of the apartment. Clyde twists on the couch to look over, and Tweek actually gets up to see what his boyfriend is cursing. When he reads the packaging for himself, he shrieks, of course, before falling into silence.

“What is it?” Clyde asks.

“I think some sick fuck bought us a fucking machine.” Craig doesn’t know why he’s surprised. South Park isn’t exactly known for its defined and maintained boundaries. 

“Wow. Ahh! Wow.” 

Fucking indeed, Tweek. “So I’m going to leave this filth here until Clyde drags it to the dumpster in the parking lot.”

“Why me?” Clyde protests.

“Your gift hoarding made me see this with my own two eyes. It’s your fault. Fix it.”

Later that night though, Craig can admit to curiosity. He sneaks out of the bed and tiptoes to the foyer where a sleeping bag has been draped over the monstrosity. It’s shaped like a reverse check mark, the actual piston at forty five degrees though it looks adjustable, surrounded by a metal frame. Craig can see how the frame would come in handy for especially kinky fucks. Changing the angle of the piston, someone could be suspended above it, completely out of control for how they’re getting fucked. Or a partner could use the support to climb in and double team the bottom. But Craig is alone now, and it seems just as well set up for solo sessions.

There’s a bottle of lube in his duffel, because of course there is. Can’t visit the hometown -or anywhere else- without it. Craig takes off his pyjama bottoms but keeps on his socks and shirt. He runs cold, and Clyde’s apartment isn’t exactly toasty. He makes brief work of prepping -a benefit of a constantly horny live in boyfriend being they’re both easier than they once were- and lubes up the dildo for good measure. An investigation of the remote proves it simple. Each click adds intensity, holding it powers it down. After that, it’s just a matter of positioning himself properly.

Tweek’s fucked him with a dildo before. Hell, Craig’s fucked himself with a dildo before. When two bottoms date, you make do. This first breach of this dildo is vastly different though. For one thing, it’s not a toy Craig’s picked out at a store. They both tend towards flesh toned jelly toys. Big and floppy, just stiff enough to enter someone. This dildo is bright red and probably silicone, or maybe it’s just the metal rod it has at its core. Whatever the material, it’s stiff. For another, the dildo stuffs its way inside him all at once. Craig’s used to a few inches then a chance to breathe, a few more inches then a chance to breathe. Fucking machines don’t offer a courtesy pause. 

Craig grinds his head into the drywall and is grateful it’s on the lowest power. The slowest setting gives him a few seconds with the dildo fully inserted before it pulls back, Craig feeling the entire eight inches. Then it invades him again, because that’s what fucking machines _do_. It’s so different to a normal fuck, so invasive his stomach swoops like he might puke. Except it’s not that, because he’s also super hard. Craig’s been having sex for seven years. You start early when an entire town thinks you’re fucking. Gay Rewards in junior high included a lot of condoms before the collective conscious seemed to decide they were monogamous and therefore barebacking. At nineteen erections still come quick and easy, at the merest drop of stimulus. Turns out a machine forcing him to take more dick than he’s initially ready for is stimulus. 

Well, if slow out of control dick is good, it only stands to reason that fast out of control dick will be great. Craig thumbs the button twice, bringing him to the third of five settings. It’s an immediate change made all the better by Craig shifting to a different angle. Bent the way he now is, the machine is nailing his prostate. It’s a monstrous rhythm humans could never manage, or at least Tweek could never manage, and Craig doesn’t cheat, he’ll never cheat, those early accusations about Michael really turned him off the idea permanently, but this isn’t cheating it’s just a machine and it’s _so good_.

He’s caught redhanded. Or is that dick-handed? Whether he wants to be witty or not, there’s Tweek walking towards him. Craig knows he should power down the machine and get his hand off his dick, maybe explain why he’s such a hypocrite. He doesn’t do any of those things. He just lets the machine keep railing him, and braces for whatever level of upset his boyfriend will be.

“I woke up and you weren’t in bed. I had to check that the underwear gnomes didn’t get you.”

“Sorry babe,” Craig chokes out. Talking during sex has never been a forte of his, meanwhile Tweek literally never stops. “No gnomes. I’m fine.”

“What are you doing?”

Shit, he’s mad. “I’m just-”

Tweek steps in closer. “No. What are you doing?” Tweek wraps his hand around Craig’s very occupied right hand. It’s a ruse though, because he doesn’t help Craig start jerking off. Rather, he curls his fingertips under Craigs and uses that leverage to peel Craig’s hand away from his cock entirely. “You don’t need this to come. I want to- ahhh! See you come just on this fat dick.” 

Craig shudders. Hot as fuck. His boyfriend is consistently hot as fuck, even when he’s being a little spaz who can’t sleep because of childhood hallucinations.

“I don’t think you need this either,” Tweek says. And he’s taking the remote out of Craig’s left hand, and dropping it into his pocket. 

It’s a loss of control in a way that Craig didn’t even know he could lose. Not only is he getting relentlessly fucked by something inhuman, he doesn’t even get to decide when it stops. It does shit for his id that he didn’t know was even a thing. Hello new kink, Jesus Christ. Maybe they need to try some bondage or something, if lack of control can be so hot. Would Tweek try domming him? Is that even a question, really? He’ll scream about it, yeah, and come up with a million ways it could go wrong, but very rarely does that stop him from actually accomplishing something. His boyfriend is extremely brave, for a coward.

Tweek uses the concealment of the remote to click it up another notch. Craig can hear the rev in whatever the fuck engine this thing is running on before he feels it. And then he _feels it_. He uses his left hand to brace himself against the wall and bites his tongue so the volume of his moans don’t wake up Clyde. Tweek doesn’t try to talk him through it, but he squeezes Craig’s hand in support.

Craig might be clawing the drywall with his left hand. It’s kind of hard to control the reactions of any individual limb to this onslaught of fucking. His eyes are closed, his toes are digging into the cheap hardwood, he may or may not be breaking Tweek’s fingers, and none of it is by choice. The heat centred in his ass is blooming outwards, overtaking his whole body.

He comes the way Tweek wants him to; untouched. He splatters on the edge of his t-shirt, on the wall, drips onto the floor. He’s a champagne bottle getting uncorked, and yeah, he’s definitely scratching the wall as his orgasm rockets through him. Sorry, Clyde and Jimmy’s damage deposit.

Tweek takes a second to push his hand into his pocket. When he does, he must have a different sense of the rudimentary remote, because he clicks it again, like he’s trying to go from highest setting to off, cycling through the levels. Craig moans as the fucking machine batters his prostate, overwhelming him, turning the heat into a burn. It hurts, but it’s a disturbing pain that’s almost good, and there’s a strange shock of disappointment when Tweek figures out the remote and powers it down. That’s either a kink Craig’s never touching with a ten foot pole, or will bring up casually during Minecraft boyfriend time in the next few days, he hasn’t decided yet.

It’s slightly embarrassing to pull yourself off of a fucking machine. There’s squelching noises involved. Thankfully Tweek’s a decent guy, not like most of the fucktards in this town, and doesn’t comment. Craig picks up his discarded bottoms, though he doesn’t commit to putting them back on yet. He needs a minute for the sweat to dissipate before the ambient temperature gets to him.

“You want a turn?” Tweek is visibly hard in his pajama pants. The dildo is still glistening with lube, it’d be easy for him to hop on.

“Maybe tomorrow. Come back to bed.”

“You sure?” Craig asks. Peer pressure is for dicks, like Kyle’s group, but this isn’t peer pressure. This is just trying to make sure Tweek is provided for.

“Tomorrow. We’ll tell Clyde not to toss it.”

If Craig was a better person he’d be embarrassed about the pending conversation. Luckily Craig is a product of his environment, and couldn’t give less of a shit about scandalising Clyde by admitting he let a machine purchased by some random ass person plow him. 

“Sounds good, babe,” Craig says. He kisses his boyfriend on the cheek, and lets him lead him back to bed. Maybe quarantine won’t be that bad, if it’s spent with Tweek.


End file.
